


Saying Goodbye

by SkipperOfTardis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, Angst, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, Sad John, Sherlock's Funeral, eulogy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:04:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkipperOfTardis/pseuds/SkipperOfTardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wrote Sherlock's eulogy for his funeral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saying Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> I like writing angst. Sorry, not sorry.

"And now it is time for the eulogy. Dr. Watson?" 

John stood and cleared his throat before moving to the front of the small chapel. He looked out over the familiar faces; most of them were people they had worked with, like Lestrade and Molly. Even Sally and Anderson had showed up, not that Sherlock would have wanted them to. The others compiled of their old clients, like Henry Knight of Dartmoor. Angelo had come as well. Mycroft was also there, of course. He'd apologized to John earlier, saying that Mummy Holmes wasn't well enough these days to travel into London. Mrs. Hudson was sitting with him, acting as Sherlock's mother for the day. Not that she normally didn't; she was probably the closest thing that the detective had to a motherly figure in his life. 

So here they were. The funeral of the great detective, Sherlock Holmes. He'd jumped almost a month earlier, but John - who was considered as the grieving widow - had been far too grief stricken to organize anything before this, but with help from Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, they'd managed to put this together. They'd appointed John as the eulogist, which had proved to be a difficult task for the man. But he'd managed to put something together for his best friend.

There he stood at the pulpit, his papers in his trembling hands. He cleared his throat again.

"Sherlock Holmes... Most of you know him as the incredible detective who could solve a crime in five minutes, just from looking at a victim's clothes or knowing a few simple facts about them. And that is how some of you will remember him; as the brilliant man who ended his life far too early and that's fine. Some others will think back and think of him as a fake, since he claimed that he was just before he died. And that's fine too, even though it's a lie." He took a deep breath, staring down at his papers. 

"I consider myself very, very lucky because I knew a different Sherlock. I got to see him every single day and I had the pleasure of seeing the more... human side of him. The side of him that after a long day of work, I could trust to have put away all his experiments and put the kettle on for tea. The side of him that would sit with me when I had nightmares and who wouldn't ask about them and would play me violin until I fell asleep. Sherlock was a very difficult man, who had many different layers to him. Some people called him a freak. I call him a savior." John had to pause, his emotions threatening to get the better of him. He took a ragged breath before starting again.

"I was a broken man when I came home from Afghanistan, literally and figuratively. I had a bullet wound in my shoulder, enough PTSD to make my therapist have a field day and a psychosomatic limp that seemingly had no cure to it. I remember thinking, 'Who'd want me for a flatmate?' I was depressed, I was broke and broken, I was terribly alone. Then I was introduced to Sherlock Holmes and everything changed.

"Within two days, I was running again. I hadn't even noticed that my limp was gone until Sherlock pointed out that I'd left my cane at Angelo's. We stood in the hallway that night and we just laughed. I felt young again, free as a bird. It seemed that Sherlock had just made everything click again; he made me feel normal again. It was like he was the key to my lock, the one that would change everything. I started eating normally, I felt alive again, felt the will to live a full life again. I was happy again. I have him to thank for that." He swallowed thickly, fighting tears. He could feel himself shaking. He took a moment before looking up again. 

"I owe him my life. I'll never believe he was a fake, never. I've seen him do amazing things, things that no one could ever pretend to do. He is by far the most brilliant man I have ever met and no one will ever be able to convince me that he either told a lie or pretended all that time. He will forever be seared to my heart as Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective... and my best friend." Tears were streaming down his face now and he had to stop to compose himself. He looked up at the roof.

"Sherlock, if you're listening... I just want to say thank you." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadowy figure move out of the church; a tall, dark man with curly hair and razor-sharp cheekbones. An apparition, he was sure, but it seemed more like a sign from the former detective.

John smiled and closed his eyes, mouthing 'I love you' as the tears continued to fall.

Sherlock smiled back, knowing John wouldn't see, before slipping back onto the streets. 'I'll be back,' he thought as he turned up his coat collar and walked into the shadows. 'I'm not done here yet.'


End file.
